


Indescribable

by Celticgal1041



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Whump, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:14:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26863483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: “Be strong, brother,” he soothed, knowing he was causing indescribable pain, and yet too afraid to stop.
Comments: 43
Kudos: 80
Collections: The Musketeers Whump Collection, Whumptober 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AZGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AZGirl/gifts).



> This chapter marks the start of a three-part story, which is a birthday present for the amazing AZGirl. This year, I was crazy enough to try and fill all the Whumptober 2020 prompts, and the three chapters of this fic are inspired by those prompts; I'll include them at the end of chapter for anyone who's interested. 
> 
> AZGirl, it's hard to believe another year has gone by, filled with awesome conversations about story ideas and life in general. I wish you all the best on your special day, and throughout of the rest of the week as you continue to celebrate. Many happy returns, my friend!

_"Although the world is full of suffering, it is full also of the overcoming of it."_

\- Helen Keller

* * *

“Argh!”

Athos paused and closed his eyes at the sound of the anguished howl. Never had he believed he could be the cause of such pain, and the realization that he was nearly broke his heart in two.

“Stop, stop, stop,” d’Artagnan pleaded, his words tumbling forth so quickly they could hardly be understood, but Athos knew exactly what his brother was asking of him.

Athos’ gaze fell on the trembling man, the Gascon half out of his head with pain as he panted and gulped for air. Wiping his hands distractedly on a rag, he reached for d’Artagnan’s fist, taking care to pry open the clenched fingers until he could grip the clammy palm. “Be strong, brother,” he soothed, knowing he was causing indescribable pain, and yet too afraid to stop. “It will soon be over,” he choked out, praying that the end would not bring unspeakable sorrow.

d’Artagnan blinked up at his friend through watery eyes, his entire world centred only on the sharp, pulsing agony in his side. He used Athos’ hold to try and lift himself up, needing the older man to understand, but the motion only caused a flare of white hot pain that had him dropping limply back to the ground. He sobbed with each gasping breath, the fire in his flank stirring nausea in his belly and multiplying his distress.

“Slow your breaths, d’Artagnan,” Athos coached as he tried to help the man deal with his discomfort.

“Please,” the Gascon stammered, the depth of his suffering shining in his eyes. Athos had to look away for a moment at the intensity of the young man’s misery, only returning his gaze when d’Artagnan repeated his earlier plea. “Please, no more.”

Athos’ breath caught in his throat, leaving him momentarily unable to reply. Sorrowfully, his eyes shifted downwards where the source of the young man’s pain still jutted obscenely from his skin. Drawing a shaky breath, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I must.”

Moving quickly before he lost his resolve, he untangled his fingers from d’Artagnan’s. Leaning across the young man’s chest, he braced himself on one arm, while the other reached for the earlier abandoned bottle of brandy. Not letting himself think about what he was about to do, he tipped the bottle over the Gascon’s wound, his friend immediately bucking beneath him while screaming in pain. By the time the bottle was empty, Athos was shaking nearly as hard as his patient.

Tossing the bottle to one side, he sat up, his hands immediately moving to cup d’Artagnan’s cheeks where he wiped away the man’s tears with his thumbs. The Gascon’s lips were parted as he gulped for air, his brow creased with pain above tightly closed eyes. Continuing to cup one cheek with his hand, Athos shifted the other to his friend’s chest, unhappily registering the weak fluttering of the young man’s heart. 

“You must try to slow down your breathing,” he directed, hoping d’Artagnan still had enough awareness to listen to his instructions. A minute passed and then two, and the young man’s heaving chest finally slowed enough that Athos no longer feared the Gascon would hyperventilate and pass out. “Very good,” he praised, his thumb absently stroking his brother’s brow to smooth away the lines of pain.

d’Artagnan had done well to endure this much, but Athos knew he was far from finished tormenting his friend. Withdrawing his touch, he pulled several clean cloths from his bag, preparing himself for the next gruesome task. “Please forgive me,” he softly entreated, not expecting any sort of response as he set his hands in motion.

He cringed as his first touch pulled another strangled cry from the Gascon’s throat, the young man’s voice growing progressively softer and raspier as he was continuously inundated with pain. Athos forced himself to focus, only vaguely aware of the uneven rise and fall of his friend’s chest and the low, broken whimpers he emitted.

Swiftly, and with far more confidence than he actually possessed, Athos packed the hole in d’Artagnan’s side with linen, pressing it in as deeply as he dared without displacing the jagged piece of wood that had impaled him. He resolutely ignored the way the Gascon’s fingers scrabbled uselessly at the ground beneath him, or how the tendons in his neck stood out as he arched to escape the pain, knowing that he was doing what had to be done.

When the wound was packed, he reached for a last, long piece of cloth that he’d deliberately set aside. This piece he wound carefully around the penetrating object and then around d’Artagnan’s middle, hopefully keeping the object in place. There was only one person he’d trust with its removal, and that person was currently many miles away.

Lifting his hands from d’Artagnan’s body, Athos shifted his weight back onto his heels, his gaze drawn to his now trembling hands. His fingers were covered in red and the sight of them made bile rise in his throat. The longer he stared, the worse the nausea became, and moments later he found himself leaning to one side as his stomach heaved.

When he’d finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of one hand, unaware that he’d just smeared blood in his beard. Reaching for the rag he’d used earlier, he wiped the worst of the offending fluid from his hands, leaving his skin streaked with what remained.

Inhaling shakily, he returned his attention to d’Artagnan, the man now far too still and silent for his liking. The young man’s eyes were closed, but the lines of pain remained, as did the shallow, uneven hitch of his breaths. Athos rested a hand lightly on the Gascon’s forehead, needing the touch as a reminder that his friend was still alive and fighting to remain so. He allowed himself to stay that way for several minutes, before finding enough energy to stagger to his feet.

He gathered his saddle bag and exited through the door of the old barn, once more cursing the rotted flooring that had dumped d’Artagnan from the loft, embedding a piece of old timbre in his side as he’d fallen. Outside, his horse waited patiently, although the Gascon’s borrowed steed was still nowhere to be found. ‘When it rains, it pours,’ he thought to himself, chastising himself a moment later for his pessimism. “At least you are still here,” he said to his horse, sparing a moment to pat the animal’s neck in gratitude.

Returning inside, he wasn’t sure if he was happy or not to see d’Artagnan’s condition unchanged. “Things could be much worse,” he reminded himself out loud, wishing for the presence of his brothers once more rather than having to deal with the current situation on his own. “It could not be helped,” he muttered under his breath, recalling well that it had been his decision to split up in the first place.

Getting the Gascon outside and onto Athos’ horse was another exercise in pain, for both of them. For d’Artagnan, any movement whatsoever fueled the agony lancing outwards from his side; for Athos it was the dull but persistent ache in his heart that accompanied the knowledge he was once again causing his brother pain. By the time they’d both mounted, it was difficult to determine who had suffered more.

“Give me an hour,” the older man murmured in d’Artagnan’s ear, the young man slumped back against the former Comte’s chest so he wouldn’t fall from the horse. “Just one hour,” Athos repeated.

In one hour, they would be safely ensconced inside the walls of inn where they were currently staying and the Gascon would finally receive the life-saving treatment he required. The thought was a heady one that had Athos’ nudging his mount forward, slowly at first and then gradually picking up speed, anxiety making him push faster than what was likely comfortable for his charge.

But d’Artagnan didn’t make a single sound, his head lolling loosely where it nestled into the crook of Athos’ neck. The sensation only made Athos want to go faster.

To be continued tomorrow...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was stopped when the former comte started to push him away, his eyes haunted as he implored, “Save him, please.”

Snatches of reality managed to occasionally penetrate the fog that seemed to have invaded his skull. A sensation of movement, jerky and uneven; something solid and warm pressed against him; pain that no longer burned with the same intensity as before but was still enough to take his breath away and keep him from seeking greater awareness.

He floated somewhere between the conscious and unconscious worlds, vaguely aware that he still lived, but far enough away from wakefulness that his wound was tolerable. Athos would have been happy to know that he wasn’t in complete agony, which d’Artagnan would have told him, had he been at all alert enough.

But all that changed in an instant.

An abrupt lurch shifted him away from the solid support that had cocooned him and kept him feeling secure enough to let his mind wander. The jarring movement was followed by another, more terrifying sensation of falling, which ended when he impacted with something hard and unforgiving.

The pain was unbelievable and pulled all the air from his lungs. He couldn’t even give voice to the scream trapped in his throat, so complete was the fiery agony that burned in his side. Unaware, his fingers scrabbled at the dirt beneath him, seeking any refuge that would separate him from his body and the all-encompassing torment that imprisoned him.

In agonizingly slow increments, his paralyzed lungs released, and he drew in the smallest, wheezing breath. Each exhale was punctuated by a low whimper that telegraphed his anguish to the world and begged for relief. Tremors raced up and down his slight frame as he lay helplessly on the cold ground, trapped inside his body and the pain that inhabited it.

He had no concept of anything happening around him, his brain too overwhelmed to discern any sights and sounds. When someone cupped his face and shuddered at his cold skin, he didn’t react. When a familiar and trusted voice called his name and begged him to open his eyes, he didn’t react. When his cloak was moved aside and cold air danced across his flank, he didn’t react.

It was only when his body was slowly lifted upwards and cradled against another’s chest that he let forth a soft sigh. The scent of fruit, well-worn leather, and gunpowder tickled his nose, but it was the welcome scent of home. Safe, he was finally safe, and that knowledge allowed him to release the tenuous grasp he’d had on consciousness and fully give himself over to the welcoming black, finally freeing him completely from the pain.

* * *

Athos grunted as he stumbled, unable to see the ground ahead of him while carrying his precious cargo. His arms burned and his chest expanded like a bellows as he gasped for more air to fuel his flagging muscles. d’Artagnan was lean, but by no means light, and carrying him was becoming an untenable burden that Athos feared he might not be able to endure for much longer.

Returning to the village should have been an easy journey, but fate, as always, had other plans for them. Instead of a smooth, if not exactly relaxing ride back, his horse tripped and lurched wildly as it attempted to regain its balance, the suddenness of the animal’s stumble tossing both riders from its back.

Athos had been nearly paralyzed with fear when they’d struck the hard ground. He’d had the wind knocked from his chest, but d’Artagnan… The jagged piece of wood that jutted from his torso had been perilously braced in place; a tumble like the one they’d just experienced could be a death sentence for the Gascon.

Nearly numb with overwhelming dread, he’d crawled swiftly to d’Artagnan’s side, praying he’d find the young man still alive and his condition unchanged. God answered only one of his prayers.

The Gascon’s pulse stuttered beneath Athos’ fingers, the feel of it both too quick and too weak to provide much comfort, but it was the sight of his wound that had the older man’s stomach churning with bile. The hole in d’Artagnan’s side had been mostly plugged by the offensive object that had pierced his skin; now, it had been badly jostled, leaving far too much space for blood to well and escape from the young man’s body.

Athos had done what he could with the remaining bandages in his saddlebag, but the linen he applied turned damp and wet at an alarming rate. His brother needed proper medical attention, which was the one thing the former Comte was unable to provide. Staggering to his feet, he’d returned to his horse’s side, giving the animal a cursory examination in preparation to mount. That was when fate had dealt them another debilitating blow.

The horse was lame from its earlier stumble, and there was no way it would be able to bear their combined weight on its back. That was how he’d found himself carrying the young man, gripping him tightly lest his numb hands suddenly release and allow his charge to drop.

Athos’ legs moved automatically, though his steps were far from steady. His worry for his friend had sapped his strength, and he was now down to the last dregs of his energy. When he finally spotted the flickering lights of the village inn, he sobbed in relief. The two figures walking towards him and then speeding to a run brought forth a tidal wave of gratitude that had him nearly speechless.

“What happened?” Porthos asked, already tugging d’Artagnan from Athos’ exhausted hold.

“Careful,” Aramis cautioned, knowing the larger man would never intentionally hurt the Gascon, but feeling the need to voice the warning regardless.

The marksman cast his concerned gaze over the older man next, noting the droop of his shoulders and the tiredness that hung over him like a cloak. His worry flaring, he gripped his friend’s arm, just as Athos’ legs gave way and dropped him to his knees. “Athos!” Aramis exclaimed in surprise, already preparing to crouch down and help the other man. He was stopped when the former comte started to push him away, his eyes haunted as he implored, “Save him, please.”

To be continued tomorrow...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to AZGirl for proofing this chapter; all remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> This chapter was based on the day 7 prompt: I’ve got you: support / carrying / enemy to caretaker
> 
> Thanks for reading and I'd love to hear your thoughts if you're so inclined!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Good-bye, ‘thos.” His eyes slipped closed and a long sigh slipped from his lips as Athos shattered above him and began to sob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for the kind reception this story has received, and also for passing along birthday wishes to AZGirl. To show my appreciation, here’s a longer last chapter, which I hope doesn’t disappoint. Enjoy!

Aramis wiped d’Artagnan’s brow with a damp cloth, sweat beading again at the young man’s temples almost immediately. The marksman swallowed a sigh at how futile his efforts appeared, but he steadfastly continued, rinsing the cloth in a bowl of cool water before reapplying it to the Gascon’s overheated forehead.

It had been two days since the foursome had reunited, but their reunion had been anything but joyful. When he’d first laid eyes on the two men, he’d been wholly uncertain who needed his services more, and it was only Athos’ plea to save d’Artagnan that got him moving to examine the young man.

While the former comte was tired and sore, he was correct that their youngest brother’s condition was grave, and Aramis had been unable to stop the gasp of horror that slipped past his lips when he’d revealed the ugly wound. 

Athos had been sparse with the details of what had happened, vaguely referring to a rotted barn floor and his lame horse. Normally, Aramis or Porthos might have pressed for more, but it was clear the older man was badly shaken by the set of events that had led to d’Artagnan’s precarious condition. Of course, he likely would have managed to move past it by now had the Gascon awakened.

Since the men’s arrival at the inn, no amount of cajoling, and eventually pleading, had roused the young man. When Aramis had first peeled back Athos’ rudimentary bandage, he’d found the Gascon had already lost a staggering amount of blood. The flow likely would have continued had the marksman not taken extreme measures and cauterized the wound before more of the precious liquid could escape.

It was a less than ideal solution, and he was well aware that some splinters of wood might have remained behind after he’d removed the large piece. But in that moment, blood loss had been the greater concern, so he’d taken a risk and closed the horrific wound, promising himself to reopen and clean it out once d’Artagnan was stronger. Now, he was realizing they might not have that kind of time.

Aramis’ greatest fear had materialized almost within hours when the Gascon was gripped by fever. Thus far no combination of herbal draughts had managed to keep it in check, and he was faced with the terrible knowledge that he’d have to cut into the young man and drain the infection from his body. 

He’d already set out the necessary supplies and was just waiting for Porthos and Athos to return. He’d sent them downstairs to procure hot water and brandy, and privately hoped the former comte might indulge in a drink or two to steady his nerves for what was to come.

Aramis was startled from his thoughts by the opening of the door, and he mustered a faint smile at his friends’ return. Athos moved immediately to sit at d’Artagnan’s side, so the marksman rose from his seat to confer with Porthos.

“Any change?” Aramis asked as he pulled the cork from the bottle of strong spirits, taking an appreciative whiff.

“No,” Porthos replied, his expression sombre. “I know he’s not at fault, but he refuses to release himself from blame.”

The marksman nodded knowingly, being all too familiar with the older man’s brooding nature. “Did he drink?”

Porthos nodded. “He downed two glasses of wine like a man emerging from the desert.”

“Good,” Aramis dipped his head in approval. “He’ll need to be well fortified for what’s to come.”

Porthos looked uneasy as he tugged at his beard. “You really need to cut into ‘im?”

“I fear it’s the only way,” the marksman replied, his expression contrite but resolute. “The infection must be drained, or he will die.”

“I was afraid that’s what you’d say,” the larger man replied, pulling a second, smaller flask from inside his doublet. “That’s why I brought something for you, too.”

Aramis’ face split into a wide grin as he snatched the bottle from his friend’s hands. Uncorking it, he tipped it to his lips and swallowed, sighing contentedly at the flavours that danced across his tongue. “You are truly a great friend, Porthos,” he said in gratitude, the larger man smiling back at him.

Porthos’ grin faded as he motioned towards the bed with a hand, “I suppose we’d best get this done.” Aramis nodded wordlessly, before recorking the bottle and setting it aside.

Several minutes later, the men had discarded their doublets and rolled up their shirtsleeves. Athos remained on d’Artagnan’s uninjured side while Porthos had taken up position at the young man’s legs. Although the Gascon had so far remained deeply unconscious, Aramis expected that to change once he took a knife to his tender flesh.

A quick glance in both men’s directions had him receiving dual nods of approval to proceed. Inhaling deeply, he held his breath for a moment before slowly releasing it. He placed the sharp knife at one end of the cauterized wound and pressed down while drawing the blade towards him.

d’Artagnan gasped in pain, his eyes flying open as Aramis sliced through his skin. Athos immediately rested a comforting hand on his brow, while the other pressed more firmly against his chest. The marksman paused, waiting to see if the older man could calm the Gascon, rather than having to forcibly hold him down.

“d’Artagnan, you must be still,” Athos explained, his tone firm but tinged with a note of pleading. “Your wound is badly infected, and Aramis must open it so it may drain.” The older man did his best to remain composed, though his heart was racing at the young man’s untimely awakening. Normally, seeing the Gascon’s dark eyes open and aware would offer relief, but now the orbs were filled with pain and confusion.

The Gascon’s eyes rolled in his head, his blinks slow and sluggish as he tried to process what was happening. He could hear a buzzing close to his ear, but his fevered brain couldn’t make anything out over the white noise. His entire focus was on the sharp ache emanating from his side, and he shivered as the air danced across his overheated skin.

“d’Artagnan, can you hear me?” Athos tried again when it became clear the young man hadn’t registered his earlier words. When the Gascon’s gaze remained half-lidded and vacant, he looked over at Aramis with an unspoken plea for help.

Firming his resolve, the marksman said, “Hold him down.” He could see Athos’ features clouded with regret, but didn’t have time right then to deal with his misguided feelings of guilt. “This can’t wait.” Moments later, the men had repositioned themselves and Aramis returned to his gruesome task.

d’Artagnan cried out as soon as the knife returned to his side, the marksman working as quickly as possible to minimize their brothers’ pain. The Gascon sobbed and gasped, and blubbered for respite as his wound was thoroughly cleaned, Aramis being relentless in examining each bit of exposed tissue for any residual slivers of wood.

When the strong brandy was tipped over the gaping hole, d’Artagnan screamed in agony, the sound echoing around the room for several long moments after as the Gascon struggled for breath, his limbs twitching and spasming in reaction to his extraordinary pain. Soft, pitiful whimpers replaced his wheezing pants as Aramis stitched the damaged skin back together.

d’Artagnan was completely limp, his chest the only part of him moving as it expanded and contracted in a stuttering staccato, hitching at each sharp pinch of the needle entering his flesh. Athos’ hand rested on the Gascon’s brow, thumb rubbing slow circles at his temple while his sight misted over with unshed tears. He was startled when the young man’s head turned slightly towards him, d’Artagnan’s eyes suddenly sharpening when they landed on the older man’s face.

“Am I dying?” the Gascon breathed out, the sound almost lost in the heavy silence of the room.

Athos inhaled sharply, fear ratcheting in his chest. “No,” he hurried to reply. “You’ll be fine.” He nearly choked on the last word, but needed the young man to believe he’d recover, lest he stop fighting to live.

“Hurts,” d’Artagnan whispered, his sight beginning to narrow as darkness beckoned.

“I know.” Athos hand moved downwards to cup his friend’s cheek. “I’m sorry.”

The blackness was beginning to overtake the light, and d’Artagnan knew he was about to lose the fight. Summoning the last of his energy, he said, “Good-bye, ‘thos.” His eyes slipped closed and a long sigh slipped from his lips as Athos shattered above him and began to sob.

* * *

“Are you sure you’re alright, Athos?” d’Artagnan asked, his perceptive gaze firmly pinned to the older man’s. Today was the first day when he’d been strong enough to stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time, and he was enjoying being able to sit up in bed, even though he’d admit that anything more strenuous was likely still beyond him.

He had only a series of fractured memories from the moment he’d fallen through the floor of the barn, which had left him impaled with a jagged piece of wood. The journey that followed, his illness and Aramis’ ministrations were all mostly lost to him. Given the severity of his injury, he was somewhat glad he couldn’t really recall everything he’d endured.

But Athos clearly did. He was startled to find the older man looking ashen and ill, with dark bags beneath both eyes and a hunched posture that spoke of little sleep or nourishment. Most worrying was the haunted look in his eyes, which seemed to deepen every time his gaze rested on the Gascon.

He’d hoped to ask Aramis and Porthos for more details about what had transpired, but as soon as he’d regained enough energy to sit up for a while, the two men had quickly deserted them. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think they’d left on purpose, intending for him to have some alone with the older man. On second thought, perhaps that’s exactly what they’d planned.

“Athos,” d’Artagnan prompted, just realizing that the older man hadn’t responded yet to his earlier question. Rather than repeating it, he decided a different tactic was in order. “I can see that you’re not alright. When was the last time you ate or slept, or even left this room?”

Athos pondered the Gascon’s questions, surprised that he didn’t actually know the answers himself. Sleep had been difficult to come by, especially since it was constantly interrupted by nightmares of the young man’s death, but he had slept a little…every now and then. As for food, it had proven difficult to keep down, with the rare meats served by the inn reminding him of d’Artagnan’s torn flesh and the wine looking too much like blood. As for the last question, Athos had no inkling of when he’d last left the room, having practically become one with the uncomfortable chair next to his friend’s bedside.

Sighing tiredly, he scrubbed a hand across his face, realizing that he’d need to offer some sort of answer, however lacking it might be. “I’ve slept,” he replied noncommittally.

d’Artagnan’s gaze narrowed but he didn’t dispute the older man’s claim, recognizing that yet a different approach would be required. “I don’t really remember much of anything after I fell,” he began, carefully watching his friend’s reaction. “Given that a week has passed since then, I can only assume things must have been quite dire.” Athos’ face paled but he remained silent.

“I wonder if it was as bad as the time when you were practically run through outside of Le Havre,” he continued, noting how the older man was now looking down and examining his hands. “Between the severity of the wound and the infection that followed, I feared we would lose you then.” d’Artagnan’s voice had grown quiet as he became wrapped up in the horrible memory. “No matter what we did, it didn’t seem to make any difference, and then…” he broke off as his voice hitched on a sob.

Athos lifted his face to the Gascon, not actually knowing what had happened while he’d been feverish and battling infection. “And then, what?” he asked, his voice quiet but curious.

d’Artagnan wiped at his cheek, feeling the wetness of an errant tear as he recalled the terror-filled hours when he’d thought he would lose his best friend. “You tried to say good-bye,” he replied, offering a tremulous smile to soften the news.

Athos sat back in his chair in surprise. The Gascon had experienced the same fear that had consumed him several days prior, but instead of dwelling on it, the young man had channeled his worry into something positive. The older man recalled that shortly after he’d recovered, d’Artagnan had revealed how important Athos’ mentorship was to him, and how hard he’d worked to make him proud. It was one of the most significant moments of Athos’ life and he still treasured it today.

And now, here he was again, trying to make Athos proud. The older man’s lips tugged upwards into a faint smile at the realization. Clearing his throat, he met the younger man’s eyes. “The truth is you scared us – me. I felt like I’d let you down by doing too little, too late, and that it was all my fault when your condition turned grave. And then…” he broke off, the memory of the young man’s words almost physically painful.

“I tried to say good-bye?” d’Artagnan offered, receiving a nod from the older man. “I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m really not.” The comment was unexpected and made Athos’ eyes widen in surprise.

The Gascon chuffed out a small laugh as he said, “Come on, Athos, are you sorry that you tried to say good-bye?”

The older man considered the question for a moment before shaking his head. “No, I wouldn’t have wanted to leave anything unsaid, just in case.”

“Exactly,” d’Artagnan agreed. “I don’t remember saying those words, but if I did, it was because I cared too much for you to leave without saying good-bye. What I am sorry for is that your worry has kept you from your bed, but most of all, that your eyes are haunted when you look at me. For that, I am truly sorry.”

Athos nodded thoughtfully, the cracks within him slowly healing with each word that fell from the younger man’s lips. Finally breaking the silence that had fallen, he said, “I believe things will be returning to normal now.”

“Oh?” d’Artagnan prodding, a glint of hope shining in his eyes.

“Someone far wiser than his years has reminded me that it’s alright to be afraid, but that fear cannot stop us from living. If it does, we may as well be dead.” One hand reached towards d’Artagnan’s, the younger man gripping it immediately, matching smiles of contentment appearing on both their faces.

“Wise words, indeed,” d’Artagnan replied as he grinned, satisfied that his best friend had been returned to him.

End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to AZGirl for proofing this chapter; all remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> This chapter was based on the day 8 prompt: Where did everybody go? don't say goodbye / abandoned / isolation
> 
> Thanks for reading and I'd love to hear your thoughts one last time if you're so inclined!

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter was based on the day 6 prompt: Please… get it out / no more / stop, please
> 
> Thanks for reading and I'd love to hear your thoughts if you're so inclined!


End file.
